Why the Turnip Taliban get my vote...

The New Tories say that the Old Tories are revolting. Particularly the ones in Norfolk.

According to fashionable Central Office opinion, the twits out in the sticks are Neanderthal in outlook and intellect; they are Old Testament moral absolutes; they are the Turnip Taliban, the living end.

What exactly have the pumpkin bumpkins of South West Norfolk Conservative Association done to incite the ire of the Notting Hill Set?

They are trying to disobey David Cameron, that's what. Two weeks ago, prospective MP and so-called Cameron cutie Elizabeth Truss was selected by him for the safe seat of South West Norfolk.

Now, she is at the centre of an impassioned plot by the locals to deselect her. Pronto.

The row began the day after Truss's selection, when a large skeleton fell out of her cupboard. It formed the rather handsome shape of Conservative MP Mark Field, with whom she had an 18-month affair when they were both married to other people.

It wasn't exactly news - my colleague Richard Kay first revealed details of the illicit relationship in 2006 - but the Norfolk members were furious.

Hark at them! They were like Amish leaders inspecting the bed sheets on the morning after the wedding.

Not fair, they said. They should have been told about this before they voted for her, they cried.

Just get on with it, you prudes, seemed to be the unsympathetic response from the shagtastic Tory urban elite.

All rather an enjoyable shambles, of course. For clearly, as the prospect of a term or two in office becomes a very real possibility after so long in the wilderness, there has been a collective rush of blood to the Conservative head.

Yet as the Party begins, inch by inch, to try to convince me that they just might be electable, a fissure has already rippled across the true blue crust of Tory unity.

Before the starter bell has sounded for an election, the tectonic plates of the bright, shiny New Tories and the dusty vanguard of Old Tories are clashing together like mad.

The question is, what side of the divide are you on? Consider the evidence.

Thirty-four-year-old Ms Truss is a typical New Tory. She is a metropolitan career politician of the type that became depressingly familiar in the early days of New Labour.

She has been parachuted in by a Tory leadership determined - not to mention desperate - to have more females in the House.

Never mind the quality, feel the width of the hormones. And never mind the views of the Norfolk locals, who might prefer someone who understood farming or fens or had some faint grasp of local issues and problems to represent them. How quaint.

Instead they got Truss, shimmering with ambition and loaded with baggage, including a dislike of the Royal Family - Norfolk's most famous part-time residents.

And perhaps even more damning than her affair (it ended Field's marriage, but hers survived) was a former political flirtation with the ghastly Lib Dems.

Now, that is unforgivable. So should Elizabeth Truss be barred from office because she slept with a married man? Well, he is still a successful and flourishing working MP.

It seems terribly unfair that she might be penalised by the Party
for their affair, while he is not. And, of course, everyone makes
mistakes.

Yet an 18-month affair is no thoughtless romp. It takes a tremendous
amount of sickening deceit and day-to-day plotting to keep such hurtful
subterfuge going.

Inside both marriages, the lies pile up like autumn leaves and trust curdles for ever.

Falling in love with someone else is one thing; but crushing the faith of a spouse is something else altogether.

I know I would think less - and indeed have - of a married friend
for having a prolonged affair with someone else's husband or wife. The
same applies to a politician.

Why should we trust someone whose own spouse could not trust them?
Elizabeth Truss may be a very able MP and she has clearly patched
things up with her own husband. Good for her.

Yet there is much about her crisp, just-minted aspiration that
suggests the kind of woman who would date Lembit Opik if he had the
right kind of political profile and she had the right kind of agent.

So on balance, I have a great deal of sympathy for the Old Tories of
Norfolk. They may not be a squeaky-clean band of brothers themselves,
but surely they deserved to be dealt a straight hand at the outset?

Their first mistake was to trust the Tory high command to forewarn
them if there was anything they should know about Elizabeth Truss, only
to be told that if they wanted to find out about her private life, they
should have read the newspapers or used Google.

Their second mistake was to hope that anyone in London would help them sort out the ensuing mess.

Is this a one-off, or a depressing taste of what is to come? Already, what I am thinking is how can we trust the New Tories?

On the big stage, David Cameron's retreat over Europe has left the
majority of voters in this country disenfranchised and disillusioned.
At a local level in Norfolk, he is attempting to foist a hand-picked MP
on a constituency who, at the moment, seem to find her extremely
resistible.

It is a timely reminder to all of us that so few politicians seem to get into politics for the right reasons any more.

New Tory rule number one, in Norfolk and elsewhere: It's not about you; it's all about them.

Liz's tractor is so tasteless

What is this I see before me? Is it Organic Barbie? Or is it Barbie Gone To Seed? And how does she pull it off?

That tight tartan shirt, I mean. It would give a boa constrictor
cramp. Try as she might, darling Elizabeth Hurley just can't do country
casual. At all.

Over the years, she has tried many looks to promote various
money-spinning projects: swimwear designer, actress-lite, official
'former girlfriend of Hugh Grant', Estée Lauder makeup model, movie
producer, mother, wife . . .

And now, yes, she has reinvented herself as an organic lifestyle
queen, launching a range of lo-cal snax including oat bars and beef
jerky. It all takes some swallowing. Particularly that jerky.

Yet down on the 400-acre Gloucestershire farm that is now her main
residence, Hurley is pulling out every trick to convince us that she
has turned into a country girl at heart.

To this end, she pouts in the hay barn and drapes herself across
tractors in the kind of poses last seen in Carry On Up The Cowshed.

Our girl smoulders like Jessica Rabbit on heat, even when she is
cuddling a chicken and talking earnestly about her crops and her
livestock.

Yet I am afraid it just won't wash. Unlike effortlessly chic but
believable green queens such as Carole Bamford or earnest Sheherazade
Goldsmith, Liz is just not homespun enough to carry off being an
organic icon.

For a start, her professional commitment to being an Estée Lauder
model means she must always look like Geronimo's auntie rather than a
land girl.

Anyway, according to her website, her farm isn't actually producing
much of the stuff for the cereal bars and beef jerky in her Guilt Free
Snack range anyway. There is only the lame promise that it 'will' be
soon.

One of my friends tried the snacks, now on sale at Harrods. How did
she feel afterwards? 'I felt like having a quick Hurley,' she said. How
rude.

Big heels, big voice, big mistake

On tour: Lulu

Just when I thought nothing could top the Nolan Sisters Live shows,
here comes little old Lulu, about to embark on a UK tour alongside
Chaka Khan and Anastacia.

Woo hoo! Where do they get these women from?

The buy-one-get-two- free rack in your local branch of Discount Divas?

Excited promoters have said that this tour will be all about 'big hair, big heels and big voices'. Sure.

That's what they said about woolly mammoths during the Pleistocene rutting season.

And I wouldn't buy a ticket for that either.

Lulu - to be fair, she does have a Pleistocene nose - is 61 this week.

Truly remarkable, considering that from certain angles she still looks about 16.

A few years ago, I suggested that her secret of eternal youth was
drinking the blood of Wee Jimmie Krankie and sleeping for eight hours
every night. In an earth coffin.

In revenge, crazy Lulu sent me a huge box of her Time Bomb skincare
products. Did they work? Look at my photograph up there, honey. Not bad
for 68!

Carnage culprit

Yes, Philip Laing was a complete idiot. After drinking whisky and
beer on a seven-hour bender, the student was photographed urinating on
one of Sheffield's city centre war memorials.

After pleading guilty to outraging public decency, Laing will be
sentenced shortly. The judge has indicated that a custodial sentence
might be in order. Isn't that a little harsh?

Laing deserves to be punished, but not as much as the organisers. A
group called Carnage UK was behind the event, which attracted 2,000
students.

They are the ones who should be punished. Or at least held responsible for cleaning up the town afterwards.

Forget about Frankie Boyle, Rebecca

Rebecca Adlington, look at you. You are incredible; a magnificent
creature. You are an athlete, a true Olympian, a double gold medal
winner. You stand for British excellence on the world stage.

Through discipline and natural talent, you took on the world's best
in Beijing last year, and you won. Twice. Rebecca, you did us proud.

Upset: Rebecca Adlington, left, was offended by a joke made by Frankie Boyle

Watching you swim, a big mermaid of muscle in your no-nonsense Speedos, was always a thrill.

Now you are upset because Frankie Boyle, a comedian who looks like a
bespectacled Maris Piper at the best of times, has made unflattering
remarks about you. So what?

Don't be humiliated by the likes of him. Decades after the laughter
has faded, years after he finally runs out of cheap jokes, your medals
will still be glittering on your wall. Hold that thought.

Did you see the headlines this week? Boris Chases Girls Into A
Bar. How could that be news, I thought. However, I got it wrong. The
headline was: Boris Chases Girls with an Iron Bar. Yes, the London
Mayor jumped off his bike to rescue a woman who was being attacked by a
girl gang. 'Yaroo, take that, you oiks!' shouted the Mayor in hot
pursuit of the would-be muggers. Good for Boris. All those sessions
with Lily Allen discussing teenage knife crime clearly paid off. Now,
who is he going to discuss iron bar crime with? Is Cheryl Cole free
this weekend?

Was it my imagination or was there a slight sniggering at Lord
Tebbit by two of the presenters on Radio 4's Today programme yesterday
morning? Some light mocking of his final remarks after he had said
goodbye? It is not something they would ever dare do to Tony Benn, is
it? Or anyone else from Labour, elder statesmen or not. Pathetic.